“I can think of no reason why anyone in Russia would want me back unless my presence, and perhaps a trial, would be embarrassing to someone, but I have no intention of returning, nor is there any way you can force me to return. You may know your government, sir. You do not know ours.” “I have been sent to get you. I cannot return without you.”
She smiled again. “Then why don’t you stay? Why go back at all?”
His lips tightened. “Madam, I am an official. My duty-“
“You are not an official here, Mr. Murchison. Over here I think we would call you a bounty hunter.” She got to her feet. “Will you leave now?” “And if I do not?”
She smiled again, amused. “Mr. Murchison, I need only step to that door and call out. There would be a dozen men here within the minute. They might simply rough you up, but they might shoot you or even hang you.” He was coldly furious. He stared at her; then slowly he moved toward the door.
“I shall go, but I shall begin the proper steps. You shall see.” When he had gone, Meghan stood up, her face pale. “How can you be so strong? I would have been frightened.”
“Once, I also would have been frightened. It is so no longer. I have friends. My advice to you, Meghan: make friends. Wherever you are, make friends.” “You have seen the last of him, I think.”
“No, I have not. He will go to our officials, I believe, and he will get nowhere. Then he will try force. I know them. It is their way. It has always been their way.
“A thing to remember, Meghan: governments may change, but a people do not, nor does their basic thinking change. My people, the Russians, have always had a suspicious government. The Russian government has never trusted its people-and they have always been suspicious of outside influences. This is not a new thing, but it is a way of life for them. The czars have always ruled with cruelty and repression; no matter what kind of government they have, that will remain the same.”
“I shall go now. If you hear of Johannes, if you hear anything, will you tell me, please?”
“I shall.”
Miss Nesselrode hesitated and then said, “Your father’s friend … Yacub Khan? I believe I shall ask him to come to your house and stay there while your father is gone. Do you mind?”
Forty-six
The oaks were islands of blackness in the pale moonlight. We had made coffee and eaten jerky and then we had left our fire behind and ridden about two miles before camping on a small bench among the scattered oaks. It was a good place. Below us the long hill sloped away to the trail, all white and empty in the stillness. The slope above us was steep and rocky, impossible for riders and not easy for men on foot, who would be sure to set a stone rolling.
As usual we had scattered, not bunching together but bedding down in our separate areas of darkness under the trees. Several of the oaks had fallen, others had shed massive limbs, and we had chosen a spot where these could make easy breastworks in case of attack. Our field of fire was excellent. It was a dry camp, but our canteens were full and at the foot of the long slope there was a stream. Further along, the canyon grew narrow and the walls too steep for a horse. The tracks we left to ride up to our camp were fresh. Our stolen horses were not far ahead.
“They won’t go much further,” Finney suggested. “We’re already a whole lot farther out than I expected.”
That thought was a worry to us all. We were many days’ ride from Los Angeles and there’d been no need to lead us so far that we could think of. An hour out of Los Angeles was wild country in almost any direction but the seacoast. Was it our alertness? That could be it. Maybe they were just waiting until we grew careless. We took off our boots and our gun belts but we kept both, close at hand. Wherever I rode I carried a pair of moccasins with me. They were light of weight and took up no space to speak of, and they were handy in the woods or at night. When in wild country I often slept with them on in case I had to move out fast. I pulled them on, then lay down with a six-shooter close to my hand. The moonlight made black-lace patterns of the leaves against the sky. Sleep never came easy for me on moonlight nights in the open. No one is entirely free of atavistic memories left in the subconscious from primitive times, when men had to fear not only others of their kind but wild animals as well. I lay awake, resting, yet alert. Wind rustled the leaves, then died away. One of the horses stamped a hoof. I put my hand out in the darkness and touched the butt of my gun.
Then I heard the sound-a faint beating of horses’ hooves against the turf.
Rising on an elbow, I looked down toward the trail that followed the creek.
Three riders, black against the pale grass.
They drew up at the stream, watering the horses. A faint rustling from nearby told me at least one of my crowd was also listening. The men by the stream were talking, but they were a good hundred yards away and we could hear nothing but a distant muttering. Then they mounted again and rode away. “Three of them,” Monte McCalla said. “That means three more to deal with.”
“Get some sleep,” I suggested. “Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
Somebody chuckled, blankets rustled, and then there was silence again. Three men, traveling late and traveling fast. It was unlikely they were not involved. To be traveling this late meant they were expecting to be someplace at an appointed time or were close enough to someplace they knew to keep riding. Lying on my back, staring up into the lacework of leaves, I considered the situation. A trap was being laid, probably no more than an hour’s ride away, for I doubted they would ride farther in the night. Their horses would be tired as it was.
So then? Somebody wished to be in at the kill? Don Isidro? It was a possibility, but fine a horseman as he was, I doubted if he would ride half the night to get anywhere. Don Federico was another matter.
Until Captain Laurel warned me, the idea that I might be wanted out of the way because I was a possible heir had not occurred to me. But with the known negligence of some of the older Califomios insofar as business was concerned, it was possible Don Isidro had made no will. He was growing old, and Don Federico would wish to inherit, so he had a very good motive aside from hatred for wishing to be rid of me.
Had he only realized how little I cared! The idea of inheriting had never entered my mind, and I could not care less. Great wealth had never been one of my ambitions. It was more important for me to become a good human being, and to learn, for there was so much to learn, from the Cahuillas, from the desert and mountains, from books, and from the people around me. There was also the mystery of Tahquitz, a mystery that haunted me and was never far from my thoughts. Who or what was this strange creature who lived in the night? Who read the books I read, who created that beautiful floor, who left that gigantic footprint? Did he truly live in a cave somewhere atop the San Jacinto Mountains?
When the horses are recovered, I must ride back to the palm canyon where the hot springs are, back to my lonely house near the mountains. I must take books with me to replace those he must have read.
When I awakened, a small fire was burning from smokeless wood, and the coffee was on. I sat up, pulled off my moccasins, and tugged on my boots. Monte was at the fire and Myron Brodie had taken the horses down to the creek for water. “Quiet,” Finney said, sitting up, running his fingers through his thinning hair.
“It will be today,” I said.
Owen Hardin stood up, slinging on his gun belt. “I think so,” he said. Squatting by the fire, I warmed my hands on the cup. Nights in the desert or near it were always cold. Uneasily I studied the rim of the hill above us, studied the scattered oaks, patches of prickly pear, and the rock out-croppings. “I don’t like it,” Finney said. “It doesn’t feel right. What will we do if that trail goes up the canyon?”